Twenty Questions
by The Insanity of it All
Summary: The rise of a peculiar villain with a thing for puzzles, and his subsequent descent into darkness...Cue the Riddler.
1. Brumalium

~A/N: My intention with this story is to develop a darker Riddler than DC's interpretation. His history differs from that of the comics and things obviously take a turn for the worst...bear with me on his apparent sarcasm. ;)

Title: Twenty Questions

POV: First person, Riddler

Characters: Riddler, Black Mask, Batman and a whole slew of unfortunate pawns.

Rating: Err...Teen for safety's sake. There will be blood. And violence. And a bit of harsh language...

Disclaimer: I don't own DC. I'm just daydreaming...

Spoilers: If you've watched Batman Begins and the Dark Knight, you're good to go. I'm running with the whole _"origins"_ theme Nolan seems to favour. If you know about the comics, that's great, but I'll properly introduce anyone I add to the story from the DC universe.

Summary: _The rise of a peculiar villain with a thing for riddles and his subsequent descent into darkness._

"I've seen worse."

Officer McLoughlin shot me a sceptical look over the rim of his glasses.

It was the usual song-and-dance between us.

The man scrutinized me for a moment before shaking his head in obvious disappointment. With a heavy sigh, he slipped another page into the file on his desk and began the tedious chore of filling out the report for tonight's fiasco.

I shifted a little to one side on my seat, trying to find a comfortable position in the straitjacket despite its snug fit—_snug _in the sense that it was a little more than just irksome. Slight men shouldn't have trouble breathing in these things. _Ever._ And if I was complaining, I could only imagine how the burlier inmates of Arkham Asylum must have suffered over the years...

I probably made a face just then because Officer Lovell stopped his pacing long enough to glance my way in the holding cell. While I knew they thought of me as an oppugnant criminal, I was a far cry from being another Joker, and my _tendencies_ toward breaking the law were passive in comparison to what the Clown Prince of Crime would like to call a night out on the town. It was, perhaps, for this reason that the men deemed it safe enough to speak plainly with me when I was locked securely behind bars.

Besides, they had half an hour to kill before Arkham's guards arrived.

"What's worse?"

"...I'm sorry?"

Lovell took a step over to McLoughlin's desk and sat against the corner like a pro, arms and ankles crossed like a 1940s star from a detective flick. Then he sighed, much the same way McLoughlin had. "You said, you've seen worse."

"Considerably."

"...Care to elaborate, Nygma?"

I could hear the curiosity behind the exasperation in his voice. It's why I loved the boys in blue—when Batman failed to entertain me, they were always eager to step up to plate. "I don't suppose it would make much sense to you. After all, each man weighs life according to his own trials and tribulations." I shifted again in my seat. "And besides, what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve."

Both McLoughlin and Lovell gave me a wary look.

It was disheartening.

"That was idiom," I clarified quietly. "Not a riddle..."

And as far as I could see, the GPD had a batting average of zero.

...

I _hated_ sports.

"Did you fall off the roof before or after the Bat clocked you?" McLoughlin asked, disrupting the awkward silence as he started another sheet for his report. He couldn't hide the subtle curl at the corner of his lips.

I had no doubt they found my capture amusing.

I thought about it for a moment and frowned. The side of my face smarted just thinking about it. "He hit me afterwards...And I didn't _fall_ off the roof."

"Of course," Lovell smiled. "You _glided._"

No, 'glided' wasn't the word for it. I was yanked off by a grappling hook—and being _tossed_ from one building to another did _not_ constitute as falling either. In the seven months that I had tormented Gotham City, I'd never taken a dive quite like that before.

Seven months...had it really been that long?

"Do you want to hear a riddle?"

"_No."_

I cringed at the unified answer but tried to shrug it off. It's not as though I could _kill_ someone with words alone. "Well—what _do_ you want to hear?"

"How about a story?" Lovell joked.

I glanced at the clock on the far wall. I had until eight...

Then _he_ would be here.

And wouldn't that be gong show? The boys in blue battling the infamous False Facers under the command of Roman Sionis—it would be another black streak in the history of Gotham City, a massacre of sorts that I didn't necessarily want to see.

The good old boys didn't know it yet, but tonight was _far_ from over...

"Alright," I said, clearing my throat. "It all began in March, after an apparently _important_ meeting that I intentionally missed..."

McLoughlin and Lovell gave me a different look then, one of unadulterated surprise. I'd only been to Arkham once before and in the brief week that they entertained me as a guest I'd managed to drive Dr. Knox mad with my antics. He didn't care why a welder was like a woman in love, or how an orange was like a bell—he wanted clues about my past and answers to why I suddenly took a dive off the deep end (—_his_ words, not mine). As simple as it would've been to just tell him, I firmly believed there was nothing wrong with me.

And I never lied.

_Ever_.

Which is probably why my gumshoe companions were eager to hear the truth.

I gave them a moment to voice any complaints and, having been met with silence, continued. "I recently returned from a conference in Chicago and was expected to explain why I suddenly pulled the plug on our project..."

~March 3rd, 2009~

"He's going to kill you, Eddie."

The incessant _click-click-click_ of Dr. Hubert's stiletto shoes was going to kill me sooner. It was enough to drive anyone mad. I tried to quicken my pace in hopes of changing the rhythm (at the very least) but the infernal woman merely countered by taking longer strides.

"He's said as much before," I argued. "If my death is truly foremost on his mind, I'm sure I won't live long enough to regret my actions."

"_Mistakes_," she corrected.

Tilting my head a little to one side, I offered her a smile of faux kindness. "_Actions_."

With an irritated huff, she grabbed my arm and tried to hang on as I turned a corner sharply. She didn't seem the least bit fazed when I shrugged her off. "_Goddamnit_—just _listen_ to me, Nashton! This is _huge_! Do you have any idea how much funding we could have?"

"A lot," I muttered.

"Not if you keep trying to undermine us!"

"Please explain to me how the word '_undermine' _fits into this conversation. If I'm the one that engineered this chemical, how is it I'm the only one that hasn't felt the repercussions of calling the deal off?"

"_You_ _will_," she warned, reaching for my arm again. Satisfied that she was starting to lose her breath, I side-stepped out of her grasp. "Just stop and think about this for a second! Kord Enterprises is _huge_. With this technology—"

"Amy, my dear, I wouldn't trust this research with a little, old grandmother. Do you honestly believe I would let Dr. Norm run amuck with it?"

Dr. Norm, of course, was my supervisor, a sickly, fifty-something-year-old that was alarming obese and utterly obsessed with the minute success of his football fanatic son. Said son was a thirty-two-year-old high school dropout that somehow managed to squeeze his way onto a farm team in hopes of making it big someday. Being just as delusional as ever, Dr. Norm, of course, would never admit to the stupidity of this ideal and firmly believed that anyone who was both younger than his son and held no interest in sports whatsoever was a complete idiot.

Namely me.

Which, admittedly, baffled me to no end...

"But it's _your_ research!" Dr. Hubert shrieked. "You've spent the last three years working on it. You just can't _discard _it."

Technically, I could. And I would.

As soon as I could figure out how.

Which would take a while...

And a lot of screaming on Norm's behalf...

All the same, Brumalium wasn't exactly the pot of gold I expected to find at the end of my proverbial rainbow. Being young and hopeful, I thought, perhaps, it would be interesting (and useful in some strange, pacific way) to engineer a chemical that was limited to melting through inorganic materials. True to at least one of my goals, Brumalium was only active in liquid form at room temperature and could be successfully stored when frozen. Ironically, though, Brumalium didn't just melt through metal. It melted through everything.

Instantly.

If 100 grams was heated on a solid block of iron five feet tall, it could burn a hole through it in three seconds flat. Curious, we tested it on anything we could get our hands on (within reason) and my hopes took a turn for the worst when wood joined the list.

Dr. Hubert (on one of my days off) thought it would be fun to test it on a mouse.

Then something bigger (though I won't tell you what).

Afterwards, she told Dr. Norm Brumalium was ready for the real world—it would be the new _'atomic bomb' _of the 21st Century. And it was. Dr. Norm came up with a small list of big name companies to share the secret with and penned down a meeting in New York on the 1st of March. He sent me an invoice and kindly informed me that I had finally done something meaningful in life.

On the 1st of March, I made sure I was in Chicago, sitting in on a presentation about elastomers. Afterwards, I sent him an email, turned off my cell phone, and worked on a crossword book for the remainder of the day. When he got a hold of me, I found out that he was incensed _not only_ because I had missed the meeting, but because he thought, perhaps, I had gone to someone else in Gotham with the research.

In my defence, the riddle I left in the email wasn't all that difficult.

Anyone who couldn't figure out _"Where Adler and Abraham meet_" obviously didn't know squat about Chicago.

That, or they hadn't the slightest idea how to use Google.

"Eddie..." Dr. Hubert began to slow behind me, tiring of the chase. Her voice was a softer now, trying a new tactic to plead with me. "Don't do this..._please_."

I shook my head. It wasn't only that I was against the idea of creating something that could cause immeasurable damage in the wrong hands—it was because the concept of _power_ had taken on a new meaning. Once upon a time, _knowledge_ was power, and a quick wit was hailed more readily than the man with biggest, meanest club. People had no interest in challenges or genuine competitions anymore. All they cared about was _efficiency_.

It was enough to make me sick.

"Amy, would it be too much to ask for a little privacy right about now? I need to find an escape route before Norm finds me."

Which he did—the second I stepped into my office.

On a good day, Norm is just a _little_ sardonic. The fellow has a perpetually blotted appearance and incredibly grey skin, something that I've pointed out to him on more than one occasion (and which has always fallen on deaf ears). When he breathes, it sounds as though he's trying to do a poor imitation of Darth Vader, and when he walks, I'm almost certain the vibrations register somewhere between 3.5 and 4.0 on the Richter Scale. When Dr. Hubert isn't in a foul mood herself (which is rare), she tends to agree that the man needs to go on a diet.

In short, Dr. Norm had enough meat on him to kill me with something as mediocre as a slap.

And when I saw him, I thought he was going to do just that.

"_Cocky, little,_ _good-for-nothing_, _son of a_—"

It was times like these when Norm reminded me painfully of my father.

"I take it the meeting didn't go too well."

"_You think_?!" he hollered. My ears started ringing. "_Lucius_ _Fox_ was there, for god's sake! And do you have _any_ idea how _difficult_ it is to get the interest of Wayne Enterprises?!"

Ah, Wayne Enterprises—the goliath powerhouse behind research and development in our dear city. I'd never met Mr. Fox in person, but I knew by way of Wayne Enterprise's comings and goings that the man chose his projects carefully. Seeing that we were a small group of chemical engineers working under the university's stringent eye, making good company with the Wayne Chemicals could lead to endless funding in future endeavours.

"I imagine it would be exceedingly difficult," I replied finally.

I never thought it was possible before, but Norm actually turned red. I heard Dr. Hubert shift warily behind me.

For a moment, I contemplated the consequences of running.

Then again—everyone who knew about Brumalium also knew that I was the one responsible for its pitiful existence. If Norm killed me, he would have nothing to gain. I would take the secret of a manageable, highly corrosive substance with me to my grave.

Together, Dr. Hubert and I watched quietly as Norm faded gradually to his usual grey pallor. After a moment or two, he actually looked calm.

I think that frightened me more than anything else.

"You don't want to sell it?" he asked eventually, sounding genuinely confused. "You'd be as rich as that billionaire brat, Bruce Wayne."

Money was alluring (I was normal man in that respect), but the real reward was victory, the knowledge of being the best.

Which was why I going to stick to my guns in this situation.

"No...I think it would be for the best if we abandoned this endeavour."

He nodded, stared at a spot on the wall beside my head for about a second and then pursed his lips. "But you're still going to work on it, aren't you?"

"Yes, until I get it right. But I need to iron out a few kinks first."

Like the fact that knocking a block of Brumalium around was just as bad as warming it to room temperature. If you kicked it hard enough it you ran the risk of losing your foot.

Dr. Norm seemed to be coming to terms with this idea. "I think...I think I need to sit down somewhere." He wobbled toward the door—but stopped halfway to squint at me. "Get cracking, Nashton. If you don't come up with another miracle, I don't know what I'm going to do to you..."

"Will do, sir."

The man began muttering to himself but he had nothing more to say to me. After he disappeared into the hallway, I released the breath I'd been holding and turned to Amy.

She looked devastated.

"...You're such a fool, Eddie."

"Do you remember that Joker fellow?"

Amy made a face and frowned wearily at me. "Yeah...Who could forget him?"

"Exactly. Or how about the panic attack orchestrated by that psychiatrist from Arkham Asylum? It was hell on earth...for Gotham, anyway. Do you really want some megalomaniac to get his hands on Brumalium?"

Amy pursed her lips (very much the same way Norm did) and chose silence over the prospect of starting another argument with me. I always rose to the challenge when provoked.

Shaking her head, she headed for the door and _click-click-click-ed_ her way down the hall to her own office. I waited to hear her door slam before closing my own.

It felt good to be right...

But like all egotistical academics, I thought this was the end of my troubles—that I could grab the bull by the horns and turn the situation around.

And like all absentminded men, I had no idea Wayne Enterprises wasn't the only powerhouse interested in Brumalium.

That was when Roman Sionis entered the scene.

A/N: "Where Adler and Abraham meet" refers to Chicago. _'Adler'_ because of the Adler Planetarium and _'Abraham'_ because of the 1860 Republican National Convention in Chicago where Abraham Lincoln won the vote to become the Republican candidate for that year's election.

Additionally, both "why is a welder was like a woman in love" and "how is an orange was like a bell" are both riddles from the 1960s Batman television show.


	2. Papierkrattler

A/N: Anyhow, here's the next chapter. References and their explanations will be listed at the very bottom of the page.

Title: Twenty Questions - Chapter Two  
POV: First person, Riddler  
Characters: Riddler, Black Mask, Batman and a whole slew of unfortunate pawns.  
Rating: Err...Teen for safety's sake. There will be blood. And violence. And a bit of harsh language...  
Disclaimer: I don't own DC. I'm just daydreaming...  
Spoilers: If you've watched Batman Begins and the Dark Knight, you're good to go. I'm running with the whole _"origins"_ theme Nolan seems to favour. If you know about the comics, that's great, but I'll properly introduce anyone I add to the story from the DC universe.  
Summary: _The rise of a peculiar villain with a thing for riddles, and his subsequent descent into darkness._

Roman Sionis was the son of a wealthy family. Being the sole inheritor of his parents' multi-million dollar company, Janus Cosmetics, Roman took up the business after their untimely death and decided to take a shot at following in their entrepreneurial footsteps. His journey began with an unpopular face-paint and ended with the creation of a waterproof foundation...

Which turned out to be rather toxic, much to the chagrin of the women who wore it.

Unsuited for the life of business, Roman promptly ran the company into the ground. Aside from the peculiar fire that killed his parents in their exorbitant mansion, the buyout of Janus Cosmetics by one Bruce Wayne was really the _only_ news I had ever heard of Mr. Sionis before our initial meeting. At that time, his failure was the farthest thing from my mind. Wayne Enterprise was at the peak of my interest.

Or it's CEO, to be more precise.

Despite my absence at the fateful meeting in New York, my findings were still presented to the men and women of Norm's little assembly. Whether or not I ever planned on doing anything with Brumalium, it would be, forevermore, an incessant little chip on my shoulder. I was just as responsible for its creation as I was for anything it destroyed.

It was for this reason alone that I found out about Lucius Fox and his meddling.

I came to work on Monday to find Dr. Hubert pacing anxiously in the staff room. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor as she turned to face me, hands stuffed in her coat pockets from where she tried to stand inconspicuously beside the lockers. It didn't really work.

Hubert was easier to read than a book.

"...What is it about Mondays that make them so repugnant?"

"That's an interesting way of saying hello, Eddie."

I cleared my throat and twirled the dial on my locker. When it popped opened, I tossed my knapsack inside and pulled out my lab coat. "Alright then—_good morning_, Amy. Lovely weather we've been having, don't you think?"

She looked at me a little oddly before she lifted a hand to her mouth, chewing on her thumb nail as she weighed the consequences of telling me whatever it was that was on her mind. Eventually, guilt won out. "Mr. Fox paid us a visit this morning."

"And by _'us'_ you mean Norm?" I asked warily.

"...Mr. Fox didn't really have an appointment. According to Norm, he gave us a call five minutes before he came in."

That didn't necessarily answer my question, but it was difficult to miss how agitated the woman looked. I let it slide. "I'm assuming Norm gave him the grand tour."

"And a small demonstration with Brumalium," she admitted quietly. "I think it went rather well..."

Or however _well_ burning a hole through the floor can go, I suppose.

Ever the slattern for funding, it really wasn't a wonder why Norm decided to show Mr. Fox everything _before_ my arrival. I know money speaks in this world and he would need to whip out the big guns just to impress Wayne Enterprises—preferably when I wasn't around to stop him.

"And you people wonder why I hate this city..." I muttered. The fact that I had Fox evaluating my work behind my back did not bode well with me, especially since his _obvious _point of focus was the bane of my existence. Wayne Enterprise was known for being a behemoth in the business world and I didn't think I could stand the pressure of having it breathing down my neck for the next couple of years or so. Besides, I'm the kind of guy that likes to take action when push comes to shove...

...It is at this point I feel it's important to say that I had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the subsequent disappearance of several Wayne employees—or the disfiguration of their faces (as was noted in the Gotham Times when their bodies were found).

Though, I had an inkling of who _did_.

Dr. Hubert started pacing again. The _click-click-click_ of her shoes brought me back from my reverie and I jolted back a step when I found her standing so close. For a moment, she just stared at me..."I thought you hated it because you always get robbed on the metro?"

Oh...there was that too.

~March 14th, 2009~

Despite working at the university, I lived a far cry away from the innocuous hubbub of city life, closer to the Narrows and farther from the comforting giant of the public courthouse. Three Arkham patients had been arrested in the alleyway beside my apartment building following the mass breakout almost four years previous, and the destruction of the elevated railway running through the central water-hub at Wayne Tower eliminated my preferred route of taking the train all the way to work. Once upon a time, I owned a car, a thankless heap of junk which required more maintenance than it was worth (and which I eventually sold), and so for the year it took the city to repair the central line I rode my bike to a farther station.

I'd been mugged twice in that time.

Needless to say, I knew how to take a beating. My father would give me a good thrashing often as a child, sometimes without reason or rhyme. Nevertheless, being assaulted wasn't a pleasant experience and I'd taken up the habit of carrying a small baseball bat in the knapsack I usually took with me to work. I had successfully scared off one potential mugger in the past and almost clubbed a lab technician in the head near the university station after a frightfully long and weary night at work.

Bat or no bat, the fact that I appeared to be prosaic enough to attract trouble unnerved me to no end. I knew the fact that I wasn't the least bit physically foreboding (and that I rode a _bike_ halfway to work) pegged me as an easy target for would-be assailants, but their lack of apprehension (—or should that be respect?—) was, by far, worse than any of the beatings I had ever endured.

In retrospect, though, I suppose I never would've met the Bat if not for those muggers...

Taking the train in the middle of the night is an experience that is, by far, more terrifying than any group therapy session Arkham has to offer. Nevertheless, I had no one to blame but myself when I lost track of the time and ended up riding the rail home at eleven o'clock in the evening. Muggers or no muggers, it was hardly appropriate for a man to fear the little things that go bump in the night.

Pulling my bike through the sliding doors of the train car, I leaned it against the entrance railing as I slipped off my knapsack, taking a moment to fish around inside for my makeshift club before I hefted it back over my shoulders. I held the bat in my right hand with one of the bike handles, keeping it at the ready, and started off toward the stairs.

The train rattled away behind me, the overhead lights of the walkway dim and fickle in comparison to the electric lamps lining the streets below. I led my bike down the stairwell before I kicked a leg over the seat and started peddling off in the direction of my apartment.

The night was dead. A pink neon sign flickered miserably on the side of a building up ahead, paper and plastic rustling in the gutter as I rode by. The air was thick and oily, compliments of the wonderful world of Gotham and its concoction of pollutants. It made me sick.

I half expected to see a moll wandering the streets. The prostitutes were usually up and roaming the city by now, but all was at ease, a queasy kind of silence that didn't belong in a city like this...

Just when I thought I was alone, a crippled figure stumbled out from behind a trash can ahead of me, cursing under his breath as he struggled not to fall in front of my bike. Noticing the man at the last moment, I veered off to the right and wobbled awkwardly as I tried not to dip into the alleyway.

Then I was thrown off my bike.

I flew over the handlebars, curling away to the one side when I hit the pavement as my bike crashed down beside me. Lying there for a moment, I listened as my sole weapon rolled away into the darkness, followed by the shuffled steps of another man as he staggered out of the alleyway beside me.

Taking a second to let my head clear, I turned over onto my side to glance at the broken stick jammed into the front wheel of my bike before I tried to get up. My back was sore and my left wrist hurt something awful but I had suffered worse in previous muggings.

The '_crippled_ _figure_' laughed at my attempt and straightened his back as he and his buddy reached down to hoist me up.

The second I was on my feet, someone's fist connected with my temple.

Stars flickered across my vision as I fell to my knees. One of the men yanked the knapsack off my back as the other tried to pull me up, something small and hard digging into my ribs from behind as he ordered me not to move. Then I felt a hand slip into one of my pockets in search of my wallet.

As humiliating (and, admittedly, frightening) as it was to be robbed, I was never foolish enough to keep anything of value on me. No cash, no credit cards, no pricy wristwatch—just a faux bat, my photo I.D. and scraps of my lunch. If anything at all, at least I could be satisfied with the knowledge that their witty little trick had been wasted on me.

It was curious, though, that the man now holding my wallet didn't seem upset when he found it empty.

I turned my head a little to one side and tried to catch a glimpse of his face out of the corner of my eye. Concealed by his hood, he kept his head bent forward and gave me a harsh nudge with his gun to keep me in check. The man kneeling by the contents of my knapsack picked up a sheet of paper decorated with scribbled reactions and gave it the one over before stuffing it back into my bag. They went about their work rather casually.

"Edward Nashton?" the thug behind me asked. He tossed my wallet aside and rested his free hand on my shoulder, fingers curling into the muscle. I winced. "You crazy bastard. Same route, same bike—three _fucking_hours late. Do you have any idea how long we've been waiting for you?"

"...Three hours?" I speculated.

The hand on my shoulder held me steady as he dug the barrel of his gun into my back—and how ironic would it be to die by gunpoint? I spent endless hours every day working with volatile chemicals and a man fat enough to kill me with his thumb. But this was Gotham wasn't it, a vault of the world's decay? People didn't come here to live; they came here to rot and die.

I was brought back from my reverie by another angry nudge and the curious notion that two seemingly petty thieves had been waiting _three hours_ for one man.

"You're not here for my money," I said, hazarding a guess. "And since I don't owe anyone anything, I'm just going to take a shot in the dark and assume you're working for a fellow that's looking for something impalpable...?"

"Try revenge," the second man replied quietly. His voice was lower than his comrades, steadier. He busied himself with stuffing my things back into my knapsack before zipping it up again. Then he lifted his face to look at me.

Beneath the hood, he wore a mask—one of those yellow _papierkrattlers_ worn in German parades. The first thought that popped into my head at the sight of it was the whole fiasco with that Joker fellow a few months back. His men wore masks, cheap, plastic faces to terrorize the people they were robbing...

But he was gone—or so I'd heard—either rotting away in Arkham or six feet underground. In any case, I didn't think his men were capable of organizing themselves. The Joker had chosen people that were easy to manipulate and dispose of, chumps that followed instructions and couldn't do much of anything else otherwise. These spooks were working for someone that wasn't currently singing lullabies in a padded room.

The man that had been rummaging through my bag sounded a little weary. He wasn't in a rush. If anything, I'd say he looked as though he thought they accomplished what they came here to do.

_Papierkrattler_ sighed heavily behind his mask and tossed my knapsack over beside my bike. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cell phone.

The man behind me moved a little, clothes rustling as though he was irritated by something. One moment, I could feel his gun digging into my back—the next it was gone, followed shortly by a muffled cry and the sound of metal dropping to the ground.

I spun sharply on my heel—and saw no one. My assailant's gun lay discarded on the pavement, illuminated by the sickly glow of an overhead streetlamp. I glanced up at the elevated railway and listened as _Papierkrattler_cocked his gun.

He was interrupted for one reason or another and cried out in surprise a moment after his companion disappeared. This time, I was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of my apparent saviour.

I found _Papierkrattler_ facing off against a tall, ominous _smudge_ lurking in the shadows of the alleyway. The criminal lifted his arm to take aim with his gun, but, having it promptly slapped out of his hand, lunged forward instead to throw a messy punch. The move was dodged fluidly and countered with a more substantial hit, black material whipping through the air as his opponent followed through the attack with a roundhouse kick._Papierkrattler_ fell to his knees gasping, cognisant for only a moment longer before a third hit rendered him unconscious...and then it was done, the terror induced by two armed men shattered by the appearance of man that was rumoured to be fuelled by fear itself.

The Batman.

I didn't move at first, just stood there and watched as he reached down to grab the cell phone my assailant dropped. It disappeared somewhere in the folds of his cape as he turned to stare at me, almost as though he thought putting it out of sight would put it out of my mind as well.

Then I _really_ looked at him.

The man obviously wasn't cocky enough to put his identity at risk—his eyes were visible, as was his mouth, but the cowl provided sufficient protection for a man that was wanted dead or alive by criminals and cops alike. Everything else was guarded by layers of armour and cloth, almost to the point where I wondered if he could withstand getting ploughed down by a train...It was a curious thing, though, to see someone as well prepared as him. The GPD had been fortunate enough to see a little extra funding ever since Harvey Dent stepped into the spotlight, but even they couldn't hope to hold up a light to his gadgetry.

Where, then, did he get the funding?

—_Or_ the technology?

...Of course, he could've _stolen_ it. After all, the credibility of the Bat had been Gotham's favourite topic since the death of Harvey Dent.

Though in some ways, I couldn't believe he was responsible for the man's curious demise. Not solely, at least. I honestly wasn't foolish enough to trust the city's undying faith in the DA (—no man was _that_ good—) so I could only assume that _if_ Batman had indeed killed him, it was only for 'the greater good'. Harvey had his fair share of enemies and it made for a list of the suspects was nearly a mile long.

Needless to say, I thought the Batman was crazy—or _cunning_, maybe. Take your pick. Either he was _very_ good in keeping his agenda hidden or he actually believed he could change the city.

A fool's feat, really...

"I would tell you how grateful I am for the intervention, but that would be stating the obvious. And to be completely honest with you, I think it's a little _peculiar_ that you're here of all places." I waited for him to say something, but he didn't. "Come on, of _all_ the crimes you could've stopped tonight, you stumbled across this one. That isn't supposed to strike me as odd?"

He knew what I was talking about—the vigilante wasn't pocketing that phone for a profit.

He was looking for the man that sent those goons tonight.

The man turned a little to one side and glanced at my bike. Then he set his stare directly on me.

_"Get out of here."_

I wasn't quite finished yet—but he was gone before I had a chance to speak. The incessant _hiss_ of his grappling rope faded into the night as he ascended into the shadows of the overhead rail, just another nightmare roaming the streets of Gotham in search of someone new and horrible to torment.

I knew people who still didn't believe he existed, men and women that were more concerned with making it to work on time in the morning than a supposed myth concocted by the media...

Somehow, I imagined that was what he intended when he chose such a peculiar theme for his costume.

I mean, come on—the _Bat_-man? It made him sound as though he was some kind of totemic vessel.

But, never one to pass up good advice, I retrieved my bike, plucked the splinters from the front wheel and got back on the proverbial horse. One of the men stirred but I ignored his groan and started booking it down the road. One mugging was more than enough for that night.

In hindsight, though, I probably shouldn't have darted across the intersection as fast as I did. Slow and easy wins the race, doesn't it?

Maybe then I wouldn't have gotten nailed by that police cruiser...

~Present time~

"Wait—that was _you_?"

I sighed.

Lovell looked as though he couldn't decide whether now was a good time to be sarcastic or apologetic. Eventually, he opted to say nothing and lifted a hand to his mouth to cover his obvious amusement.

McLoughlin, on the other hand, was a little worried. This was police business, after all. "Bullock told us about that—said some scrawny kid rolled out in front of his cruiser before he turned the corner. He knocked you off your bike, didn't he?"

"No harm done," I muttered, even though the man had given me a good scare. The embarrassment far outweighed the pain, anyhow.

My lower back was beginning to protest against my posture, but leaning back against the bars wasn't necessarily a comfortable position either. Besides, my audience was starting to grow and one of the key elements of any performance was its presentation.

Three new cops had gathered by the door, two sergeants and a trainee. One was leaning against the frame, glancing every now and again into the hall, waiting for an update on the situation as the other two listened in on our conversation. I recognized the woman with the faded black eye from a few weeks ago—now that I thought about it, her nose was a little crooked too. It was no fault of hers, though. One of the False Facer's snuck in a punch when she'd been trying to cuff him...

That was one thing I'd noticed about Sionis and his men.

They all thought chivalry was dead.

I shifted a little to one side and listened as Lovell tried to muffle his laughter. "If you _want_, I can stop."

"No," one of the sergeants interjected. She frowned a little and crossed her arms. "I want to know about the napalm caps and the...the _bomb_."

"And Mr. Fox," McLoughlin added. "After all, the little incidentwith him is what landed you in Arkham in the first place."

It was a sour thought but _apparently_ (as Dr. Knox put it) it was merely the spark that ignited the powder keg. According to the psychiatrists at Arkham, my sanity had been winding down gradually over the years and I would've been sent to professional help sooner or later. It was..._'inevitable'_.

Their words. Not mine.

"Alright." I tried to think for a moment, wondering if I could omit anything to save time. After all, I only had until eight o'clock to give them all the details. "I guess I should tell you about the ordeal with Lucius Fox, then..."

A/N: 1) The idea for Brumalium came up in one of my Organic Chemistry classes. My professor spent an all-nighter in his lab and started contemplating a fanatical assortment of compounds that would cause researchers a world of unneeded stress (if they actually ever existed). In the same sense, Brumalium exists for the sole purpose of giving Eddie a permanent headache.

2) Roman Sionis is, of course, the Black Mask. As creepy as I find his character in the comics, I'm going to stick as close to his origins as humanly possible in this story—after all, he's the kind of villain I enjoy hating.

3) Totemic vessel: it's actually a term used in the novel _"Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours"_ by Jim Butcher. It refers to "people...who have chosen to use an animal as a personal totem. Who, in some sense or fashion, draw power from that association". In any case, Wayne uses his bat-ness to scare the hell out of people, so I thought the term suited him rather well.

(And, because I forgot to add this in the last chapter...)

4) Kord Enterprises was originally run by Ted Kord, the superhero Blue Beetle. It's not stationed in Gotham though (actually, I'm not quite sure where it is...I always thought Chicago, but I could be wrong)

5) Wayne Chemicals really is a branch of Wayne Enterprises. I'm not messing with you.


	3. David Colt

A/N: I apologize for the long hiatus. No excuses. Which is why I have to thank you for your patience.

References and their explanations will be listed at the very bottom of the page.

Title: Twenty Questions - Chapter Three  
POV: First person, Riddler

Characters: Riddler, Black Mask, Batman and a whole slew of unfortunate pawns.  
Rating: Err...Teen for safety's sake. There will be blood. And violence. And a bit of harsh language...  
Disclaimer: I don't own DC. I'm just daydreaming...  
Spoilers: If you've watched Batman Begins and the Dark Knight, you're good to go. I'm running with the whole _"origins"_ theme Nolan seems to favour. If you know about the comics, that's great, but I'll properly introduce anyone I add to the story from the DC universe.  
Summary: _The rise of a peculiar villain with a thing for riddles, and his subsequent descent into darkness._

* * *

As erratic as I could be at times, I didn't necessary have a death wish and the peculiar incident with _Papierkrattler_ had given me reason enough to tread carefully for the next little while. Come morning, I left my bike locked up in the apartment to avoid any further confrontations with disgruntled, masked men and called a taxi in lieu of taking my regular route to work.

Traffic was an absolute nightmare. It wasn't something I normally had to deal with, having rid myself of my car a while ago, and I wasn't particularly _excited_ to reacquaint myself with it now that the public transit system was no longer an option for me. There was never really any accounting for how long it would take to get through all the little, congested bits en route to the university campus. And biking was healthier anyway.

Needless to say, I spent nearly an hour sitting in the backseat of a yellow taxicab, listening to the driver's indietronica and feeling relatively car sick for the first time in nearly fifteen years. It didn't help much that my back was killing me and that my wrist was still swollen from the incident last night, but the overpowering smell of mint and smoke was painful enough on its own and the sooner the ride ended, the better.

I couldn't contain a sigh of relief when the driver pulled up in front of the Student's Union Building and the sound earned me a curious look from my driver. Mindful of his business, though, he merely glanced at me in the reflection of his rear view mirror and cranked his music a little louder as I slid through the door. It paid to be ignorant in this city.

Reaching back in to hand him my fare, I flung my knapsack over my shoulder and strolled briskly across campus to the Central Engineering Building, winding my way through the mass of bleary-eyed students as they marched despairingly to class. I knew that feeling; knew what it was like to have every second of every day tick by sluggishly, watching as time passed by with the dilatory enthusiasm of a sloth. I couldn't exactly handle peace. I was a patient man, but I needed to keep myself engaged in one activity or another. There was just too much to do in the day, so many things to keep the mind occupied...

It was for that reason, perhaps, that my mind wandered to Brumalium and the strange occurrences of last night.

As a child, I had been largely ignored. Perhaps the only person that could see me was my father, though his attention was _never_ welcome—said 'attention' detailed a vicious cocktail of physical and psychological abuse. I did well in school, which should have been more than enough reason for bullies to single me out, but it was a stretch of the imagination to suppose those tyrants knew an 'Edward' even existed. The puzzle contest I won in the fifth grade was the only thing that garnered their attention—a victory, I must admit, that was procured through no modest amount of trickery and a just smidgen of luck. But with the praise from my teachers came a duly beating from my father, a sharp lesson on why cheating wasn't the healthiest of pastimes

I think that was, perhaps, the first and last time I ever tried to lie my way out of trouble, futile as the attempt was...

Keeping both this in mind and the fact that I didn't know any of the city's crime lords, the usual muggings I faced in Gotham were an actual _thing_ of Gotham, not, in any part, directed personally at me—until last night, of course. _Papierkrattler_ mentioned revenge and his companion let it slip that they had waited a great deal of time for my arrival below the station.

The only people I could think of that I upset on a regular basis were Norm and, perhaps, his closer associates. In regards to Norm, he could snap my neck like a twig if he was really _that _eager to dispose of me, though, to his credit, the man was a little too smart for murder. As for his associates, they would, perhaps, try to shake me up if they thought I was holding them back from digging their greedy little fingers into the business of Brumalium, and that, at least, sounded realistic. At least in a city like Gotham.

I knew the motive, but there still remained the question of what I could use to remedy the situation.

The thing of it was, the only option I _really_ had was to hide every sample of Brumalium ever made. It was too dangerous to keep lying around, anyway. The lab technicians had a hard enough time dealing with it when it was frozen, let alone when crazies were running around trying to steal it. This was the least I could do for them after the last batch melted through that dandy little spectrometer donated to us from Germany.

By some amazing grace of God, I somehow managed to beat Norm to work. Every few days or so Hubert would show up to get an early start on her work, but the two of them preferred to stand by their unspoken schedule of 9am to 6pm, a fact I tried to take advantage of liberally when I was, in Norm's words, 'up to no good'.

I darted into the rec room and tossed my knapsack into my locker before slipping on a lab coat. Turning toward the door, I noticed the news report on the television, muted as the standard closed captions rolled up at the bottom of the screen. An anchorman stood in the early morning chill, gesturing vaguely to a frontal view of the Wayne Chemicals building on the east side of the city. He looked grim, but it was the sight of the yellow police tape flapping in the wind that caught my attention.

Intrigued, I turned on the volume.

"—_earlier this morning. Despite a lack of information from the police, we believe this could be another attack by the so-called 'False Facers'. _The camera turned a little to the left, keeping the anchorman visible in the corner of the screen as it panned over to include a police cruiser in the shot. _"As with the previous attacks, all three victims were found with severe, chemical burns on their faces. Const—"_

I jumped when the door slammed shut, nearly dropping the remote as I turned to face my visitor. Muting the television, I watched Dr. Hubert as she moved to lean against the counter with her hip.

The little virago wasn't usually a morning person.

"Good morning, Eddie."

I smoothed down the front of my shirt and forced a smile. "Good morning, Amy."

She watched me carefully, eyes darting briefly to the TV before focusing on me again. If the curl of her lips was anything to go by, I knew I had something acrid to look forward to today.

"You know, I had a little chat with Norm last night," she began, returning her attention to the Television screen, seemingly interested by the news. "I think we both agree that you've been edgier than usual."

"Define 'edgy'."

"Chicago, for starters. And your little hissy fit about Brumalium."

"I never had a hissy fit."

"You scraped the project," she argued, "and being passive aggressive still constitutes as being 'aggressive', Eddie."

"How very observant of you, my dear. I'd give you a gold sticker if I had one."

"I think I could suffice with a _'you're right, Amy'_."

"I'm not in the habit of lying."

"_Eddie_—"

"It's too early for this," Fred declared, opening the door with a hearty shove. Glasses balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose, he dragged his feet over to the coffee machine and set about making a fresh batch. "Good morning, boys and girls."

"Hypothetically speaking..." Dr. Hubert began, addressing Fred this time instead of me, "if you found out Eddie wasn't taking his antipsychotics, what would you do?"

Fuming, I bit my tongue. She wanted to rile me up, make me look like a lunatic in front of my colleagues to give her something else to complain about. Luckily for me though, Norm could honestly care less what anyone in this building did so long as they got their work done on time.

Fred kept his back to her as he measured out the coffee grinds, humming thoughtfully to himself as he mulled over her question. "...Eddie's not on his pills?"

"That's what I'm assuming."

"Awesome."

She frowned.

Said pills were a menace. My psychiatrist prescribed them to help me 'cope' with my apparent stress. But life was slow enough already without the medication and I wasn't stressed. Eccentric, perhaps, but never _stressed_.

I knew my doctor said I obsessed over things a little too much, but it wasn't as though I was going to attack anyone—and I was far from suicidal.

Fred set about adding water to the machine before he hit the On switch and turned to face us. Leaning back against the counter, black hair sticking out at odd angles as though he had just woken up from brief nap, he somehow managed to look oddly wise for a short, skinny guy fresh out of graduate school. It was, perhaps, because of his youthfulness and spunk that we were able to be amiable with each other on a regular basis.

Crossing his arms, he stared off into the far recesses of space before shaking his head. "I haven't see a difference in his performance. Besides, he has this whole theory on time..."

Hubert gave me a spiteful look, like a kindergartener whose pigtails had been pulled. "Time doesn't slow down, Eddie."

"Besides," Fred interjected, "what are you going to do about it? It's not as though Norm's ever going to fire him—_kill_ him, eventually, but the boss only really cares about our results."

"Nothing," she replied, sighing wearily, "But it would be nice to know I wasn't working with a complete lunatic...I'm assuming those pills were prescribed to you for a reason, Eddie."

In a sense. After the first mugging, I'd been left a little worse for wear, and along with the mandatory wear-and-tear check up with my doctor came what should have been a quick drop-in with a councillor under Norm's request. Sadly, the said councillor thought I was under a little too much pressure for what was normally seen in a young man and referred me to a psychiatrist.

"I wonder..." I began. Both Fred and Amy tensed, probably worried that I was going to throw a riddle at them for the benefit of my own amusement. I wasn't. "...when was the last time Norm went down into my lab?"

Amy blinked. So did Fred, but that might've been because he was falling asleep on his feet. The little guy turned around to grab a mug for his coffee and Amy just continued standing there, baffled.

"Don't know," Fred murmured.

Amy glanced at the television. "I think that was maybe a month ago. He came to see if you'd melted through anything other than the spectrometer."

I frowned, setting the remote down on the table before turning sharply to squint at her. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I—"

"_Work!"_ Norm hollered miserably from somewhere down the hall. I jumped, because I hadn't expected him to be here just yet, but if Amy was already in today then I supposed I shouldn't have been that surprised.

"Yes, master..." Fred muttered. Taking a moment to savour his first sip of coffee, he turned to me, blinked awkwardly again and swayed a little to one side. "Man, I'm going to need my stereo on full blast. You okay with that?"

"Yeah."

"Thank god." He took another swig and hauled himself out into the hallway, muttering something about slave drivers and the graduate student that mistakenly added nitric acid to ethyl alcohol last week.

I waited until he was out of earshot before turning to Amy. "So...?"

Surprised, she gave me the weirdest look to date. "How is it you can tell? _Honestly_."

"Amy—"

"It's nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

"But your mood is so hard to gauge..."

"It doesn't help when you provoke me."

"It helps less when you yell."

I tensed. "I promise not to yell."

"You sure?"

"_Amy_."

"_Shh_! Just give me a second..." She leaned toward the door, glanced out into the hall to see if anyone was lingering there and then turned meekly to face me. "Since Mr. Fox's visit, one of your samples _may _or may not have gone missing..."

Missing...

Brumalium?

"Did Norm offer it to him?" I asked quietly, trying to keep my voice level as my temper threatened to flare. More often than not I could compose myself, but the ramifications of Fox's meddling were hardly something to wave aside. That _fool_. What _right_ did he have to—

"I suppose," she replied. Amy looked all the world as though she had lit a fuse, knowing full well that there wasn't a chance in hell this that this would end gently. "Why do you ask?"

_Because_, there was a significant difference between chewing a man out for stealing a sample and asking him kindly to return it when it was my employer's fault for giving it to him. I knew full well how powerful Fox was, not to forget that he worked for Bruce _Wayne_, the playboy billionaire that fired CEOs left, right and centre whenever the hell he felt like it.

"Yes or no, Amy? It's a simple question."

She frowned. "I don't _know_, Edward. George went down to the lab this morning and told me a sample was missing. When I reported it to Norm, he told me not to worry about it."

Occam's razor would suggest that I accept the fact that Norm was working behind my back, _again_. But greedy or not, Norm's behaviour failed to explain Lucius Fox. After all, Fox worked for Wayne Enterprises, the primary target of the so-called 'False Facers'...

...My wallet.

"Damnit."

"Edward?"

"I left my wallet," I murmured aloud, recalling my encounter with the thugs last night. The idiot holding me at gunpoint threw it on the ground. Then again, the cop that almost ran over me with his cruiser went to arrest them after I jumped back on my bike. He could've picked it up...but that hardly mattered if they already knew which route I took to work. Chances were, they also knew where I lived.

_Or_...

Amy cleared her throat. "Well, do you need to—?"

"Leave? Yes. Tell Norm I'm sick or something. You're good at lying."

"He'll kill you."

"Say that I have Splenomegaly," I muttered, slipping off my lab coat as I headed for the lockers. "Or better yet, tell him Dr. Rutherford finally had me committed."

"Why don't _you_ lie to him?"

I paused. That was...well, not an option. "I can't."

She laughed, then cleared her throat for real this time. "Alright, but it's your funeral..."

"_Assuming_ he kills me."

"But will you be in tomorrow?"

"That's the idea."

With a sigh, she trudged over to the staff couch and dropped bodily onto the cushions. Idly, she watched me hang up the coat and grab my knapsack before locking up. "Sometimes I wonder why your psychiatrist hasn't locked you up already. I think you'd have fun in Arkham."

"With the non-conformists?" I smiled. "I agree that my genius is practically criminal, my dear, but I'm hardly a villain."

She gave me a sour look, but said nothing further, just held out her hand expectantly for the remote. I snatched it off the table and tossed it to her, waiting to see what was next on the news before turning to peek my head into the hallway. As soon as I was certain Norm wouldn't pop out of seemingly nowhere, I slipped out the far exit and made my way across campus to the subway station.

In the back of my mind, I honestly hoped Amy wouldn't rat on me.

~March 15th, 2009~

That afternoon found me in the lobby of _Wayne Enterprise_s Chemical Engineering building on the east side of the city. On the way in I passed a young woman, tall and slender, with a pencil skirt and a tight-lipped smile. It almost looked as though she would offer said smile to me until she saw my knapsack. And then she just grimaced.

"We don't give tours to students."

Paranoia was high. I understood. Probably didn't want her face melted off like all the other employees who foolishly talked to strangers. If a person wasn't there strictly for business, it was plain to see they didn't want them there at all.

"That's reasonable," I replied, nodding amiably as I slipped past her toward the receptionist's desk. Honestly, I felt anything _but_ amiable, but I could manage to be cordial until I got an appointment with Fox.

"Good afternoon," the woman at the desk said automatically. The man beside her was chatting away fervently in German to a client on the phone, eyeing my knapsack curiously before turning his gaze to his computer screen. Without making eye-contact, he handed his co-worker a business card and she scribbled something down on the back. "I apologize, sir, but we don't—"

"Like students?" I supplied. "Or just visitors, in general?"

"We—"

"I work for university, my dear, and I'm here to make an appointment with Lucius Fox."

She blinked for a moment, then typed something into her computer. Eyeing the screen, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but he's busy. The earliest I can book you in is on the 23rd."

"I don't have until then...though I'm sure you hear that from just about everyone."

She tried to smile, but I could tell that this was the part where she expected me to lose my patience. "If you leave me with a name and number, I'll tell him you dropped by."

"Edward Nashton," I told her, then paused. "Sorry—Nygma." Legally, it hadn't been changed yet.

She went about typing it into the computer and nodded. "And a message?"

"Just tell him I work for Dr. Benjamin Norm. He'll know what I'm talking about."

"Alright," she sighed. Giving me one last, worried look, she tried to smile. "Have a nice day..."

"Same to you," I murmured.

Turning sharply on my heel, I made my way through the bustling crowd of Wayne employees, bumping into only one gentleman as I tried to make a beeline for the door. All I could really do now was try to call Fox, possibly after I cornered Norm for a little chat—but it was unsettling to think what he was doing with my sample this very moment. It wasn't as though I could just call the police and—

"—for Gotham University?"

The hand on my shoulder startled me and I stopped abruptly in front of a woman. She veered out of the way as I turned to see what the man wanted. "...Yes?"

The older fellow was almost a head taller than myself, dressed in the usual business attire with a company ID card hanging idly from a cheap, plastic clasp on his belt. He escorted me out of the way of the employees, a little to the left of the row of revolving doors leading to the street, and smiled.

"You'll have to excuse me. I heard 'Nygma' and figured you were the young gentlemen Dr. Norm wanted to introduce to the company."

One of Norm's associates, how _wonderful_...

"Yes," I replied, cracking a smile for good show. I wasn't above lying, but I could fake emotions when they were called for. "Mr...?"

"Dr. David Colt," he corrected amiably, shaking the hand I offered to him. "I was at the meeting on the 1st of March, but Dr. Norm informed us something had come up for you. We were hoping to see you sometime soon, though I hadn't quite expected to run into you like this..."

If Colt had been at my no-show presentation, it meant he was up there on the company list with Lucius Fox, high enough that he could be directly related to whatever it was the Wayne Enterprises wanted with Brumalium.

Needless to say, this was a pleasant turn of events.

"Funny you should say that," I mused. "I was just dropping by to book an appointment with your CEO."

Colt winced, obviously knowing full well what Fox's schedule looked like. "I thought you might, but Fox was planning on dropping by the university sooner or later. I take it he hasn't shown up yet?"

Oh, he'd shown up alright, though he didn't necessarily speak to _me_. "...I haven't seen him, I'm afraid."

"Well, he's out today and I have to get to the airport, but I'll call Maggie and have her pen you in sometime on Monday. I'm sorry, but that's the earliest I can do for you."

"That won't be a problem," I assured him, and it really wasn't—I'd be seeing Lucius Fox much sooner than that. "Thank you."

I held out my hand and we shook again. This time, Dr. Colt was the one to get shoved by a frantic passerby, bumping into me as the culprit glanced back over her shoulder to excuse herself.

I laughed a little.

"My apologies," he murmured as he tried to give me my space.

"No worries."

"This place hasn't exactly had the best vibe lately, if you know what I mean."

"Of course," I replied, scanning the crowd of skittish, Wayne underlings. "But with good reason..."

He grinned at my understanding. "I'd best be off, then. You have yourself a wonderful day, alright?"

"Thank you, and take care of yourself," I returned.

Politely, he nodded and boldly dove back into the fray as he navigated his way to the elevators. I stood there for a moment and watched him go, reflecting over the chance encounter and wondering what would happen now that a new path was open before me. It wasn't often that luck was kind to me.

When I was safe on the other side of the revolving doors, down the marble stairs and across the street, I glanced at the ID card in the palm of my hand and sighed. There really was no telling how far I'd have to go to rectify this whole ordeal, but there was no hope of success without sacrifice, of that much I was certain. I would do what needed to be done, however illegal it might be...

The thought brought an old axiom to mind, the one about making your bed and lying in it.

I had time still before I had to lie in mine.

~Present Time~

"Where'd you learn pickpocket?"

I shrugged. "Nowhere, really. But he had the card clipped to his belt of all places. Who does that?"

One of the officers beside the door cleared his throat. Humouring him, I glanced at the small arsenal buckled around his waist. He and his partner were the latest addition to my ever-growing crowd.

After a second or two, he realized I was being sarcastic.

"I see..." McLoughlin murmured. He hummed thoughtfully in the back of his throat and grabbed another blank sheet of paper off the pile beside him as he continued the report. This was, undoubtedly, the most information I had ever given anyone about the events leading up to tonight.

"As I was saying—"

"Wait," he interjected, scrambling to catch up. "Lovell, why the hell aren't you writing anything?"

His partner sighed and picked up a clipboard and a fresh sheet of paper. Pen poised, he glanced over at me. "Give me that name again—David Colt?"

"Yes."

"We'll be wanting that ID back, Nygma."

"All in due time."

"_Nygma_—"

"Officer," McLoughlin grumbled. "Everything'll go back to normal eventually. Isn't that right, Edward?"

"Of course," I replied humbly. "I think Officer Lovell's mistaken me for a common criminal. Rest assured, whatever I do, it'll be for the best."

A few of the cops stared at me warily. Now that they knew how serious I was in my operation, they were able to realize just how far I would go to get the job done. Sionis could be an imposing figure when he wanted to be, but as soon as he stepped out on _my_ playing field he wouldn't have a hope in the world of rising from the ashes.

—Of course, it would certainly help if the Batman suddenly dropped dead and left me to my peace, but chances of that happening were less likely than the good John Kennedy rising from the dead.

Lovell blinked at me and frowned. "Was that a threat?"

"Did it sound like a riddle?"

He looked away and mulled it over for a moment. Finally, he returned his attention to the report and continued writing. "David Colt, huh?"

"One 'D', one 'a', one 'v'—"

"Shut up, Edward. I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were."

"_Edward_—"

I smiled. Dim as he was, Lovell was certainly entertaining.

Wearily, I glanced at the clock...

Fear is something I had grown intimately familiar with over the last little while. It was here, now, tying knots in my stomach as it reminded me of what was to come. Part of me wanted to warn McLoughlin, maybe prepare him for Roman's surprise, but that wasn't a part of the plan—his or mine. I'd just have to bite my tongue until the end of the story.

"Are we ready now?"

Eyes glued to his report, McLoughlin waved at me to continue. Almost forgetting where I ended, I decided to I start with something new.

"I think Sionis is the best example of what happens to a person when kismet comes knocking, even if having one's face melted off sounds a little harsh..."

A/N: If there are mistakes (or anything really, that you don't like the sound of) please feel free to tell me. I'm not easily offended.

(1) "add_[ing]_ nitric acid to ethyl alcohol" –if you mix these chemicals together and stir the solution you'll cause an explosion. I'd advise you against trying this at home...or ever, really.

(2) "Splenomegaly" is a term used for an enlarged spleen. Just thought you'd like to know...

(3) "kismet" is just another word for fate. I believe it's Turkish, though if I'm mistaken, please feel free to correct me.


End file.
